Little White Lies

by Lesley Lokko

  On the fourth night, she made up her mind. It was Thursday. In another couple of days, the team would be heading home. The final match was scheduled for Saturday afternoon. There would be a party that evening for all the students and teachers who’d taken part in the tournament – the perfect moment at which to slip away. Their teachers would all be too busy with their new-found friends and the free booze that was laid on each night to pay much attention to the teenagers they’d brought along. Especially if they won the final match. She drew long and hard on her cigarette. Leaving. It was the toughest decision she’d ever had to make.

  23

  Afterwards, she would remember that hour as the longest of her life. She’d walked out of the hostel without saying a word to anyone, not even Tatiana. She’d taken only half her clothing, leaving a remaining jumble of jeans and T-shirts on her bed so as not to arouse suspicion. She headed for the main road leading out of Split, where she’d seen the huge lorries with their foreign licence plates heading north towards Germany and Italy. She didn’t care where she ended up, so long as it was outside the Communist bloc. In her back pocket was her Russian passport and a small bundle of useless roubles – and an English ten-pound note Martin had given her. She’d wanted to hold and feel the contraband currency in her hands and he’d readily obliged. She had no idea what it was worth – a meal? A night in a hotel? Or neither. No matter. There was only one way to find out. It didn’t occur to her to be afraid. With her tight, cut-off shorts and T-shirt and her long, wavy blonde hair falling over her shoulders, she knew it would only be a matter of hours, if not minutes, before she found a lorry driver willing to smuggle her across the border. She’d seen the way they all looked at her, honking their horns as she and Tatiana strolled towards the bus stop. She had Martin’s name and address; as soon as she was safely in England she’d call him. He’d promised her all sorts of things – little did he know just how soon he’d be called upon to make good. Fifteen minutes after leaving the hostel she clambered into the cabin of a truck heading for the West. Giuseppe Zanotti was a middle-aged, balding, paunchy father-of-six who was on his way back home. His headlights picked out the statuesque blonde in her tight shorts standing just off to one side of a traffic light and he almost lost control of his vehicle. He was on his way back to Trieste with a truck full of slivovitz, the local plum brandy that his countrymen loved, which he’d exchanged for the usual consignment of Western goods that the Yugoslavs couldn’t get enough of – perfumes, jeans, imported cigarettes – whatever the businessmen who employed him thought would sell. He didn’t care what was in the truck. For the past ten years he’d been driving the thousand-odd kilometres down the coastal road from his home city towards the pretty Yugoslav towns of Brgat and Dubrovnik. It was a pleasant journey. He knew the towns and villages along the route off by heart – Rijeka, Crikvenica, Senj, then further down, Zadar, Sibenik, Split. But the evening he stopped to pick up a young Russian teenager on the run from a father who beat her every chance he could was the first time he’d ever knowingly broken the law. She was so sweet and pretty, dammit . . . he clenched his fists when he thought of what she’d been through. She was tough, though. Seventeen years old and making a new life for herself. You had to admire her. His own daughter, Giuliana, was eighteen and bright enough but she had none of the Russian teenager’s gutsy determination. She chatted to him in her husky, broken English – she didn’t know a word of Italian and he knew no Russian – but between them, on the twelve-hour-long ride through the night, they somehow managed to fathom each other out.

  He stopped the truck just outside the border crossing as they’d planned and she got out of the cabin. He made a space for her in the rear, amidst the crates of slivovitz and the boxes of soft, furry peaches that he’d picked up for a quarter of the price in Hvar. His wife and two eldest daughters would do the canning – they’d sell the jars in the months coming up to Christmas to supplement his salary. It was an arrangement that had been in place for years and one of its unforeseen advantages was that he knew most of the border guards who manned the checkpoint between Plavje and Trieste proper.

  ‘Dobra vecer!’ he called out cheerily as he approached the checkpoint. ‘Kako je stari?’

  ‘Ah . . . Giuseppe. Come va?’ Zoltan, a middle-aged guard with a handlebar moustache whom he’d known for the past few years, grinned up at him. ‘What you taking back tonight?’

  ‘Oh, the usual. Slivovitz, peaches . . . couple of boxes of pears.’ He reached down and pulled up a plastic bag from the floor beside him. ‘And these, of course.’ He handed the bag down to Zoltan.

  ‘Ah. Grazie, my friend, grazie.’ Zoltan peered inside at the box of cigars and two bottles of perfume for his wife and daughter. He slapped the side of the truck. ‘Sve najbolje moi prijatelju. Dobra vecer.’

  ‘Arrivederci,’ Giuseppe called, starting up the engine. He gave the Yugoslav a half salute as he was waved through the barriers. He drove carefully onto the freeway that led to the city of Trieste and then put his foot down, putting as much distance between himself and the border post as quickly as possible. He drove directly into the centre of the city – deserted, now that it was nearly midnight – and pulled into the forecourt of a small petrol station. He killed the engine and ran around to the back of the truck.

  ‘You okay?’ he called out anxiously as he opened the rear doors. ‘Tutto bene?’

  Lyudmila’s blonde head appeared above a stack of boxes. She grinned at him. ‘Da. Is good.’ She stood up, her head nearly touching the roof, and clambered unsteadily towards him. He gave her a hand and she jumped easily downwards. She was at least a couple of heads taller than him and he could only look up at her helplessly.

  ‘Where you go now?’ he asked finally.

  She looked across the deserted forecourt. She shrugged. ‘I find hotel. No problem.’

  He hesitated, then reached into his pocket. He pulled out a thick wad of lire. ‘Here,’ he said, peeling off several thousand. ‘Take. No good have no money. Take,’ he urged her. ‘Take.’

  She looked down at him and at the notes in his hand, an unreadable expression in her young face. ‘Thank you,’ she said softly, stuffing the notes into the back pocket of her shorts. He scratched his head. Aside from the small bag that couldn’t have held much more than a toothbrush and a spare T-shirt, she had nothing. How would she manage? She seemed to understand his unspoken question. ‘Thank you,’ she said again, flicking her thick blonde hair over her shoulder. ‘I go.’

  ‘Where? Where you go?’

  She shrugged and smiled. Her limited English didn’t allow her to say much. ‘Is okay.’ She turned and began walking towards the main road. It was his last glimpse of her. Those remarkable long, tanned legs, the frayed denim shorts and the thick curtain of heavy blonde hair . . . she was quickly swallowed up by the night.

  24

  A YEAR LATER

  She ran her finger down the long length of the sideboard, checking it for dust. In half an hour’s time, her employer would do exactly the same. And if there were a speck to be found, Lady Bryce-Brudenell would find it. Lyudmila inspected her finger anxiously. It was clean, not even the faintest smidgen of dust. She nodded to herself. If there was one thing the teenager from Krylatskoe knew how to do, it was clean. Elsa had taught her well. She pulled a quick, disappointed face. She was a cleaner. It wasn’t exactly what she’d imagined when she stepped off the train that had carried her from the continent to London’s Victoria station but . . . shit happens. Things don’t always pan out the way you expect. Working for Lady Bryce-Brudenell, however fussy she was, beat working in (respectively) the seedy Blue Spot Café on Great Peter Street, behind the bar at the Lamb and Flag just off Piccadilly, handing out leaflets outside King’s Cross station and, very briefly, collecting ten pence each from unsuspecting sunbathers who’d dared sit down on one of the wooden deck chairs in Hyde Park. At least here, in the family’s large, somewhat gloomy flat in Chelsea that they occupied during the week, she had her o
wn room with plenty of hot water and thick, fluffy towels, the likes of which she’d never seen. Her room was at the top of the third flight of stairs with its own en suite bathroom and (tiny) kitchenette. Lady Bryce-Brudenell had opened the door to it saying, ‘It’s a bit on the small side, but I think you’ll find it cosy enough.’ She’d had to look up ‘cosy’ in the dictionary (uyutnyi) but the comment still made her smile. A bit on the small side? Clearly Janet Bryce-Brudenell had never been to Krylatskoe.

  She plumped up the cushions on the two sofas, straightened the thick, oriental rug and quickly wiped the coffee table. She made sure all the magazines were neatly stacked away and that the flowers in the vases were still fresh. One last tweak of the heavy damask curtains and the living room was done. She still had the dining room and the hallway to do before her employer came home but it was only halfway through the morning. Lady Bryce-Brudenell wouldn’t be back from her twice-weekly bridge session until at least noon. Plenty of time.

  She wandered into the kitchen and pushed open the back door. It was damp outside, the sort of cold, grey English weather that reminded her of home. She shut the door behind her and lit a cigarette. The smoke curled and burned its way pleasurably down into her lungs. A red-breasted robin fluttered into view, landing delicately on the dewy grass, beak dipping and darting before fixing her, an unfamiliar presence, with a careful, beady eye. They remained there together for a few moments, she finishing her cigarette with languid, unhurried grace, the bird pecking around for a worm or some morsel that wasn’t a cigarette butt but something useful, perhaps even edible. From behind the closed door she could hear the tinny, persistent shrill of the transistor radio. Dionne Warwick’s voice swelled mournfully. I’ll never fall in love again. She inhaled deeply, drawing the smoke down into her lungs. She preferred the chirpier, more upbeat sound of bands like the Beatles and the Jackson Five. It’s Been a Hard Day’s Night and ABC and I Want You Back. That sort of stuff. She didn’t care for these lonely-hearts ballads. They put her in a bad mood.

  A sudden noise made her jump. It was the front door, opening and closing. She quickly dropped her cigarette and ground it underfoot. She opened the kitchen door and slipped back inside. She could hear footsteps coming down the corridor. Suddenly a man’s frame appeared in the doorway. It was Sir Peregrine Bryce-Brudenell, Lady Bryce-Brudenell’s husband and a rare sighting in London. He spent most of the time on their family estate somewhere in Scotland. Lyudmila stared at him. She’d only met him a couple of times in the three months she’d worked for them. He was a tall, heavy man in his late fifties, a good fifteen years older than his wife, with a large, high forehead and a receding chin that lent a somewhat melancholic edge to his otherwise frosty manner. The telephone was ringing in the background; he held out a cellophane-wrapped bunch of flowers and there was a moment of embarrassed awkwardness between them.

  ‘I’ll just—’

  ‘Should I—?’

  They both spoke at once. She hesitated. The phone continued to ring, shrilly.

  ‘I’ll get that,’ he said finally. ‘Here. Unwrap these and put them in a vase. It’s Janet’s birthday. Lady Bryce-Brudenell,’ he added, as though she might not know her employer’s first name.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ She hastily took the bunch from him. Red, velvety and barely unfurled roses, their heads pressed against the cellophane like faces against glass. He disappeared back down the corridor. She ripped the flowers free of their squeaky transparency and quickly buried her nose in the deep, earthy perfume.

  His disembodied voice floated down the corridor. ‘Yes, I just got in. No, not yet. Oh, around eight, I should think.’ She fished out one of the heavy glass vases from beneath the kitchen sink and filled it with water.

  She was just arranging the last of the stems when he came in again. ‘Ah, that’s lovely, thank you.’ He looked closely at her, taking her in. They stood together again in a lightly held embarrassment for a few seconds, servant and master of the house, neither quite sure, it seemed, of what to say. Then he cleared his throat, the sound breaking the silence. He turned and left the kitchen. His tread died slowly away down the long corridor like an echoing sigh.

  25

  The room was shrouded in darkness. ‘Wake him at five with a cup of tea,’ Lady Bryce-Brudenell had instructed her as she was leaving the flat. ‘He’ll sleep past dinner if he’s not careful.’ She tiptoed in, the tray carefully balanced in her left hand as she moved past him so as not to disturb him before she’d laid it down. The air was heavy and dark; the scent of pipe smoke and books mingled together. She kept her eye on him as she laid the tray down on the table beside the heavy black leather Chesterfield on which he slept.

  ‘What time is it?’ He was already awake.

  She stopped, like a child in a game of statues. ‘Five o’clock. Nearly.’

  ‘Bring it here.’

  She hesitated. There was a ringing sensation in her ears, as though she’d submerged herself under water. She looked closely at him; in the dim half-light that came in from the barely opened door, his face was a concentration of expression, not a set of individual features. ‘Wh . . . would you like milk?’ she stammered.

  He shook his head. His hand reached out, as if for the toggle on the lamp beside the sofa, but went instead to his head. ‘I’ve a terrible headache,’ he said, levering himself upright. ‘Terrible.’

  ‘Oh.’ She didn’t know what to say. Her own hand hovered over the tray. ‘Milk?’ she asked again.

  He shook his head. ‘No. No milk.’

  She hesitated again. ‘Lemon?’ Their sharp scent hung in the air.

  ‘No. No lemon.’

  There was another awkward pause. ‘Shall I . . . do you need something? For your headache, I mean,’ she asked.

  His hand went to his temple. ‘Right here,’ he said, tapping it forcefully. ‘I don’t know when I’ve had such a headache.’ He seemed to be waiting for something from her. The flat was completely empty. Lady Bryce-Brudenell was at a dinner; the children were still at school. The silence was almost palpable. A shape moved; it was his arm. He reached out and took hold of her arm. ‘Here,’ he repeated, pressing her hand towards his forehead. ‘Right there.’ His skin was damp, almost leathery. She swallowed. Darkness, fear and confusion were running together in her mind as one – what did he want? Outside against the darkened windowpane, a light, furry snow was falling.

  His fingers moved from her own, beginning a trail down her forearm that was a caress. They were close: he, half-sitting, half-lying on the Chesterfield, she bent awkwardly over him, still frozen with nervousness and indecision. Part of her wanted to jerk her hand away but there was a part of her that recognised there was more to be gained from the situation if she only allowed it to develop. ‘Sit,’ he said, releasing her hand and patting the space beside him. She sat down gingerly. The leather squeaked and protested slightly under her weight. He got up and went to lock the door. The room was still dark; if there was to be a protest from her, now was the time to make it.

  She did not.

  26

  FOUR MONTHS LATER

  ‘You can get dressed now,’ the nurse said to her briskly, pulling back the curtains. ‘The doctor’ll be in to see you in a minute.’

  Lyudmila sat up, hurriedly pulling the sheet awkwardly over her legs. ‘Is . . . is result?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, yes. The results are in.’

  ‘What is result?’

  ‘The doctor will discuss that with you.’ The nurse’s lips were drawn together in a thin line.

  Suka. Bitch. Lyudmila looked away from her and down at her stomach. She knew what the results would be. She didn’t need a doctor to tell her that – but she had to be sure. She’d waited as long as she could but time was fast running out. It was getting harder by the day to hide the growing bump underneath her jumper. Only the other day she’d caught Lady Bryce-Brudenell looking at her closely as she’d straightened up from cleaning the oven. ‘Are you all right, Lyudmi
la?’ she asked, her tone oddly brittle.

  ‘Fine,’ she’d replied hastily, hoping her cheeks wouldn’t betray her. ‘Just a little . . . tired.’ It was true. She was tired, and dizzy.

  ‘You look . . . you’ve put on a bit of weight, eh?’

  ‘Da. Good food. Good English food.’ She’d tried to make a weak joke of it.

  Lady Bryce-Brudenell had stared at her for a second, and then nodded. ‘Yes. I dare say.’

  The door opened suddenly and the doctor appeared in the doorway holding a clipboard in his hand. The stern-faced nurse threw her a final disapproving look and left the room.

  ‘Well, Miss Gordiskaya,’ he pronounced her name smoothly. ‘As I’m sure you already know, yes, you’re pregnant.’

  Lyudmila ran a tongue around her lips. ‘How much?’

  The doctor looked confused. ‘How much what?’

  ‘How much pregnant?’

  ‘Oh, I see. Between twelve and thirteen weeks, I’d say. I take it you’re not—?’ he left the question delicately unsaid. His demeanour indicated there might be other options than the one he’d left out.

  ‘No. No married.’ Lyudmila wasn’t one for delicacies. ‘But is okay. I will have baby.’ She looked him straight in the eye. ‘I am not first, you know.’